


The Darkest Night

by dreforall



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackfyre, Body Horror, F/M, Gen, Gothic, Idk guys just roll with it okay, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Mystery, Religious Imagery, Supernatural Elements, The Long Night, The North is dead, obligatory Halloween fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-12-14 17:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreforall/pseuds/dreforall
Summary: It has been centuries since the North fell to the horrors of the Long Night. Since then, only a few villages resisted, scattered around the ruins of what was once Westeros’s biggest kingdom.Yet legend spoke of strange happenings. Rumors of Starks still alive, of things unholy stirring in the shadows, in the ruins of the past...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have not the tiniest clue. Cheers :D

The world fell away once you crossed Moat Cailin.

"Are we going the right direction?"

_'Right' _ was relative. It was not like he knew where, exactly, their destination was -- all maps available predated the Long Night, and even then seemed incomplete at best.

"I hope," Jon said, and he did. He truly did, because otherwise, they'd be dead within days. "Still pushing North, anyway."

The sound of their ponies' hooves died under the much more pressing howl of the wind. There was nothing around them -- nothing whatsoever but white, with the occasional slick black of a leafless tree. The complete, featureless blacks and whites made him shudder, but still, they pushed on. To turn back now would be to sign their death warrant, and to continue forward... likely the same, really. They left no tracks, and the risk of coming back without finishing their mission... the Queen was clear in her desire. The Queen was clear in her message.

Sometimes, he thought he could see a bird, or some sort of animal creeping in the dark. But the endless barrage of wind and snow made it difficult to believe anything could survive here, where nothing grew and nothing lived, and he dismissed these impressions as simple wishful thinking, or a shifting in the lights and the clouds.

He glanced at Sam, sweet Sam who persevered even knowing he could not take this much longer. Their men fanned out around them, all close enough to be in sight, but not so close as to get in each other's way. At least the Queen had awarded them with an entourage. Not that it would make a difference, but at least, they could carry more supplies and distribute them better, in case other things still lurked around in the endless night.

Though night was not a precise description. It was the storm that clouded the sun, but he could tell, from the dimmest of lights, that it was out there: somewhere beyond the snow and the cold and the desolation, there was day. Hope, perhaps.

He shook his head to ward off the wayward thought, and focused on the road ahead, or what was left of it. The Old Kingsroad was scarcely visible under layers and layers of snow, but there were hints -- a waypost here, a sign there -- which they followed dilligently, from their own maps. Brushing his hands to warm them (he'd lost sensation quite awhile ago), he sighed. They should be nearing what were once the outposts surrounding Winterfell in a day or so. Not for the first time, he prayed it was true, that the maps still applied to this forsaken land, that they had not turned away in their paths.

That they were not marching straight into the heart of something he was not sure they could combat.

Fighting the shudder in his spine, Jon Targaryen gestured to his companions. It was time to settle down for the moment. They would go on the next day.

They had to.


	2. Chapter 2

_'The rumors say there are people there still. That there is a Stark there still, keeping the Night King at bay, and that is why the curse has not crossed Moat Cailin...'_

_'Snarks and grumkins, Your Grace. It's not possible. The North fell centuries ago, how could any Stark still live? They all perished during the War of Five Kings and then, the Night King --'_

_'Something happened. Something terrible and strange and unholy. And, as my heir, I want you to find out what.'_

_He knew the look in her eyes, the look of religious fervor that overtook her as she spoke of such things. The Queen was not sane, everyone knew that, but her madness had a particular flavor to it, and nothing quite brought it out like the smell of heresy and the dark, strange things that haunted their world. The things she saw as abominations unto the gods. Her fingers clenched on his arm then, those liquid, purple eyes alight with a fire he was increasingly familiar with -- a fire he feared and abhorred in equal measure. He knew the Queen found him handsome, and he knew it was a matter of time before her baser instincts overwhelmed her religious mania enough for her to take what she desired. He shuddered in revulsion at the thought._

_'You will go,' she purred, her breath too warm on his skin, and he went rigid with it. 'You will bring me the last Stark's head... and I will reward you most handsomely...'_

_Perhaps this is what it was, in the end: her way of ridding herself of temptation. Of him._

_And if he by some chance survived, and found and did the impossible, well..._

_He did not wish to think what would happen then._

***

“Is that a village?”

”I believe so, yes...”

”Oh. I didn’t think there would still be villages... after...”

Village might be a stretch. The buildings were ramshackle at best, but still, solid enough to survive against the snows and winds that plagued the land. The walls were solid black stone and wood, polished to smoothness by the centuries, standing in sharp contrast to the white nothingness around them. Far, he thought he could see a wall, or what remained of one.

These things — the wind, the snow, the dead village — these things he expected. But there was something more in the air, something that frightened him.

The howling of the wind was the only sensible sound around. It had been the case since they crossed Moat Cailin. But there was something else there, a hum that came from deep in the ground, that made the hairs at the back of his neck stand out in attention.

There were lights behind the boarded up windows.

”Am I dreaming?”

Sam had once been a chubby, happy young man. Ever since their journey began, he’d seen his friend lose the rotund weight he carried, and the bright in his eyes. To see hope in those eyes once again made Jon feel even worse about the whole situation; he saw nothing hopeful in those lights, nothing but death in the hum rising from underground and grating against his skin.

His pony, little more than a bag of bones now, chuffed and snorted, frightened. No doubt picking up on Jon’s own unease. They had lost two more overnight, driven mad or lost to the dark snowstorm, he was not sure; it was not something he liked to think of. They found the bodies not far from their camp, naked, sightless eyes staring into the sky, and an ecstatic smile on their lips. Peaceful, at least in death, in their cairn of snow.

The hum grew louder the closer they came to what was once the town square. Not a single living thing remained outside, as expected, but those lights —

He startled from his thoughts as his pony went to a sudden stop, ears pricked forward.

Staring ahead of them was a house, a little bigger than the others. Perhaps once the town chief lived there. That mattered little and less. The wind threw great drifts around, but even then they could see, loud and clear as a ship alighting on Blackwater Bay.

The door was open, a bright, warm light beyond. Beckoning. A clear invitation if there ever was one.

Fearing for their lives, but given no other choice, Jon burrowed his heels on the pony’s flanks, and led them to the door.


	3. Chapter 3

_”The legends are plenty,” said Sam, dusting off some tome or another. His maester’s room was full of knick knacks, many inherited from his ancestors, although some he’d added to himself. Strange potions, contraptions and artifacts littered every wall, shelf and table. “Most mere superstition and not worth it. However, the rumors of living people still roaming the North are likely what attracted Her Grace...”_

_Strangely, being there always made Jon feel at home. There was something warm and inviting in the chaos. He was no maester, himself, but he had a deep admiration for the Arts; it also beat being in the unctuous excess of the palace._

_”How can there be people? Nothing grows there. No animals, no trade...”_

_”It sure is a mystery. A mystery I am glad to aid you in solving.”_

_Jon sighed. He knew it was a suicide mission, but he had to have Sam with him, if they had a chance at all._

***

The sound died the moment they crossed the threshold. Even the ever-present wind.

He could not see the source of the light that bathed what was once the entry hall of a modest, if large, residence. In fact, there was nothing but the shell of the house — no furniture and no signs of life whatsoever. No dust or snow on the floorboards, either.

Nothing but the blackened walls that seemed to emanate their own light, amber-colored and warm, like fire, from every direction and no direction. Sam noted, in quiet, that they had no shadow.

They came in, all five of them, horses and all, to find... nothing. The storm still raged outside, they could see even if they could no longer hear it. Cautiously, the five of them made a turn of the room — there were half-ruined stairs leading to a second floor none of them wished to visit, and nothing else.

”Is that a trapdoor?” one of his men — Mooton something or another — pointed at a marking right in the middle of the floor.

”Looks like it,” said another. This one he did not even know the name of. Leyton?

”Should we...?”

”Yes.”

As the leader of their expedition, he dismounted his pony and approached the trapdoor — not without a great deal of apprehension. The whole situation felt wrong, down to his bones, and yet, whatever force inside him wished him to continue. To go on and find out where this would lead — even if it was to their demise.

The trapdoor was not easy to lift; it was large, large enough a horse would go through it, but so well fit it was nigh invisible against the patterns of the floorboards. Mooton crouched besides him, nimble fingers poking and prodding at the groove. Soon, all five worked at it, until it rose, soundless, leaving a perfect space of unbroken darkness in the unnatural light of the house.

But they could see it. Stairs, leading down and down into what looked like an abyss.

“Should we?” This time it was Sam. In the shadowless light, Jon saw something in his face, where fear warred with curiosity and the desire to know more. To go beyond, even at the cost of his own life.

”Let’s go.”

Silent, they led their ponies down into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Remember; the night is dark and full of terrors.”_

***

The walls were alive. That was the only thing he could think about as they moved through the absolute darkness of the underground. The walls were alive, but not in a natural sense — there was nothing natural about this cursed place, nothing real about... this.

What madness, what horrors, had they fallen into? The darkness swallowed their steps, and they spoke no word and made no sound; it only made their breathing and the sound of their heartbeats louder. He could almost feel it, the flux of blood in his veins, the tension in his muscles, the ache in his bones from cold and heat and fear, translated and mirrored in the pony he dutifully pulled behind him -- the animal's trust contradicting its agitated breath and the nervous sound of the dancing hoofbeats.

_The North is alive with magic_, came unbidden to his mind, a lesson learned long ago at a Maester’s knee, lessons learned from dusty tomes from the Targaryen Restoration. _Alive_. That word kept repeating itself in his mind. Alive with magic and yet the North, as they knew it was dead. Whatever lived there was but the spirit of death, lurking behind every skeletal tree, underneath every snow-coated rock. He shuddered, though there was no wind, and no cold.

The hissing pressure against his skull grew and retreated in turns, like a thousand tongues licking against the edge of his consciousness. There was no room for retreat. The corridor was narrow, too narrow for them to crush against it and turn back; they moved single file, marching to the unknown fate before them. Perhaps if they ditched the ponies they might squeeze back; and die in the endless winter, smiles on their faces as they froze to death.

Perhaps that would have been a preferable fate. Yet the trapdoor shut behind them as soon as they descended. There was nothing but forward for them now. Were it not for the smell of wet earth, and the brush of stone against their fingertips, he might as well believe they were cast in space, without stars to light the way.

"Is that a light?" odd echoes accompanied Sam's voice, even though there was no room for such a thing to exist down in the abyss they walked.

It was, he realized. A faint, almost-dead light in the deep dark, so small it might be a firefly, lost underground.

”It seems so,” and yet Jon could not help but wonder whether it truly was a light, or the strange happenings playing tricks on them. True dark did things to trick the senses: ghost sounds and lights, ghost feelings like the pressure in the back of his skull.

Was it simple dark madness that made him feel? The dark playing tricks on him? That feeling brushing against his shoulders, the fingers raking through his hair — was it just him losing his mind to the dark?

_Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real..._

_Is it not Jon? Are you sure? Are you? Are you?_

_Stop. Stop. This isn’t real._

It could have been hours, days, he could not tell — not even by the tiredness of his feet or the hunger in his stomach or the thirst in his chapped lips. But even through the featureless void he could tell the light grew larger and larger, closer and closer.

A door. There was a door.

He was quite sick of doors.

"Should we?"

"What choice do we have?"

The light burned his eyes. After the darkness, the cold, the light again, it hurt. He blinked, over and over, to rid his eyes of the static and dryness that built there. Tears ran down his face. It took awhile for his eyes to adapt and _see_.

A circular room, underground. Torches and glass candles burning against walls. Corridors leading to unknown destinies.

But that was not what made his heart stutter and his already tense muscles to twist harder. No.

There was a girl smiling at them.

”Hello, Jon. Welcome back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo sorry for the late! Work ate my life :(


	5. Chapter 5

_“Their creed was the ‘North remembers’,” the Queen crooned against his ear. He shivered in revulsion at the heat of her breath. She was lovely, the Queen, the loveliest of women, with her large purple eyes and midnight-black hair that fell like a dark waterfall down her back. Her flawless skin, ruby lips and beautiful figure made her a vision. A woman made to entice men to fuck, to lose themselves to lust and desire._

_Yet there was something in her, too, in her breath and the manic light in her eyes, something vile that made him shudder and want to run her through with the Valyrian sword he held at his hip — a long-lost family heirloom._

_“What if they remember Targaryen treason? What then? No, we must stop them! You must! For love of me, you must!” her eyes grew wider, agitated, and her nails turned into claws as they grasped his arms. "No, my love, sweetling, you must stop the Northern usurpers, you must!"_

I do not love you! I bear nothing but disgust for you, infernal woman!

_But he knew. He knew the threats, the madness, what she would do. His Queen was as lovely as she was terrible..._

***

There was a whole village underground, and he went through so many stages of fear, horror and panic that he could no longer feel. Not even wonder at the houses carved into earth and stone, little more than cells lit with glass candles, the massive chambers as high as a castle’s hall, where cattle and produce bred and harvested fed the small, but thriving people of the North.

The girl, a woman, in truth, led them to what looked to be an inn; not that they expected visitors in this godsforsaken place, but still a gathering hall for the people who lived there. The same people who looked at them curiously, but neither approached nor questioned their existence there.

”Leave the horses,” she said, with a smile. “We will take care of them.”

He could tell his men were wary, but, just like him, they were numb — too numb to fight or protest. Quietly they tied their ponies to a post before the so-called inn, and quietly they walked inside.

It was warm in the village, and they shed their cloaks and overcoats as they went. Soon, they had little more on than breeches and tunics, and the the humorous smile on the woman’s face told him she expected this.

”What is your name, my lady?” Sam’s voice was low and polite; they were hard pressed to speak above a whisper. While the inn was mostly empty, there were people going in and out at random — pale, animated people who paid them no mind.

The woman laughed, and Jon noticed how pretty she was. She was around forty, he presumed, and had a riot of black curls that bathed her shoulders and back, falling loosely over a simple, but clean, peasant dress in gray and white.

”My name is Salla, _my lord_,” she smiled and Sam blushed. Jon wasn’t sure whether it was due to the gentle ribbing in her voice or her pretty, shining eyes. “You are newcomers, so I must tell you this: there are no lords or ladies in this place, except for the Lady of the North.”

That called his attention. Could it be the Queen's paranoia was not as unfounded as he thought? No, that was not quite right; while there may be a Lady of the North (_Lady_, not _Queen_, he noted), there was no reason to believe such a lady was a Stark, or, worse, that she had thoughts to usurp the south. There could not be more than three hundred people in the underground -- assuming the network of corridors and passageways he'd spied led to other, similar places.

"Lady of the North?"

"Oh yes," Salla smiled, but there was a different quality to it now; the warmth was gone, replaced with some smirking certainty, as if she was into a joke they did not know. "You will meet her soon. Her Ladyship should come back in a few days."

"Come back?" this time it was one of his men, Mooton, who asked.

"All in due time, good sirs. All in good time. For now, please sit back, relax, and enjoy the hospitality of the North, will you?"


End file.
